


Lustre

by Askellie



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Begging, Emotional Manipulation, Incest, M/M, Mind Control, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tentacles, Torture, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25359133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askellie/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: Normally Nightmare wouldn't allow anyone who betrayed him to live, but for the moment Cross is more useful to him alive.Love is a neutral feeling, but fervent arousal is a positive one. With Cross's emotions as the bait it's enough to draw Dream out of hiding and into his brother's hands.
Relationships: Bad Sanses Gangbang, Bad Sanses/Cross, Cross/Dream, Dreamtalecest, Horror/Cross, Nightmare/Cross, Nightmare/Dream, Sans/Sans (Undertale), dust/cross, killer/cross
Comments: 32
Kudos: 269
Collections: Undertale Smut





	1. Chapter 1

From the very first inkling of returning awareness, Cross knows he doesn’t want to wake up. Every fibre of his being desperately resists it, trying to stay rooted in blissful unconsciousness. Despite his efforts he can slowly feel his body starting to wake, and with it comes a rising tide of hurt that makes every bone in his body throb unpleasantly. He groans, sockets fluttering open as he tries to make sense of how bad the pain is and where it’s coming from.

As his vision clears, the first thing that comes into focus is Killer’s grinning expression and the very long, sharp knife he’s holding.

“Awake?” Killer asks, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side. He barely waits a moment for Cross’s response before thrusting with the knife. It gouges into Cross’s face right beneath his eye-socket. “How about now?”

Cross cries out, his body jerking helplessly at the bright kiss of agony. There’s a strangling pressure around his throat, holding him upright. It takes him a few disorienting seconds to realise he’s been suspended from a hangman’s noose that’s dangling from the ceiling above. He scrambles to find his footing, and discovers that if he balances on his toes he can just barely relieve some of the pressure on his neck, but it leaves him with absolutely no leverage to back away from Killer or the knife.

Cross can see his own blood on the blade, bright red now instead of a corrupted shade of purple. Killer admires the splash of color, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “That’s better. You look more like yourself now. It’s just kind of boring when you look like any other Sans.”

Cross blinks uncomprehendingly until the hot trickle of blood down his cheek reminds him of the last wound he took there. The scar Chara once gave him had vanished when XGaster restored his code. The fresh cut feels like a mirror of the old wound, a jagged zig-zag across his cheekbone.

He narrows his sockets in a defiant glare and tries to snarl a curse at Killer, but although he doesn’t have a windpipe for the noose to crush, the way it's wound around his throat disrupts the magic he uses to speak. His incoherent gurgle only makes Killer’s smirk widen.

“Hope you enjoyed your nap,” Killer tells him, idly whirling the knife between his fingers with effortlessly skill. It looks like at any moment he might lose a finger to the blade before barely diverting its path with each subtle twist of his phalanges. “‘Cuz the Boss has been looking forward to seeing you again.”

Cross goes very still, suddenly starkly aware of his surroundings. He’s dangling in a room that looks like a dark mirror of the Judgement Hall. The columns are carved from a burnished obsidian and there’s barely enough torches to drive back the heavy gloom that curtains every window. The checkered tiles beneath his feet are cracked and stained, the grouting caked with what looks like an alarming amount of dust. Ahead of him he can see a raised dais crowned with an ornate throne. Sitting regally in its centre is Nightmare, the sharp curve of his smile like a reaper’s scythe.

The instinct to flee has Cross twisting futilely in place, pulling against the noose. He only succeeds in drawing it tighter around his throat until the constriction is pinching into the nerves of his spinal cord. With a dizzy gasp, he’s forced to subside, desperately taking stock of himself. His hands are bound behind him with something that feels like wire, a rigid, unyielding coil that bites into his carpels. His uniform is hanging off him in tatters, torn open across the dozen wounds he’d sustained trying to fend off the other skeletons. Most of them are from Killer’s knives and Horror’s cleavers. Dust had preferred to keep his distance, striking from the ground with bones to trip and unbalance him, leaving Cross’s shins and knees mottled with dark bruises. 

When he reaches for his magic, it only fizzles weakly, barely responding. He thinks Nightmare must have felt his pitiful attempt, because his oily form gives an amused ripple.

“Hello, Cross,” Nightmare greets. The purring resonance in his voice bounces around the empty hall in an eerily distorted echo. Languidly, Nightmare rises from his seat, and every step he takes towards Cross makes the injured skeleton twitch with discomfort. “So nice of you to finally join us. We’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

Cross can feel Nightmare’s aura rolling over him, an invisible wet humidity like the cloak of a summer night, but the innate dread it brings makes his body feel chilled. The nameless pressure tells him that Nightmare is probing his emotions. Immediately Cross tries to force his mind to empty, refusing to feed that hungry interest.

“I thought we’d find you travelling with my brother,” Nightmare says like he’s making idle conversation, but the vibrant cyan of his eye-light is narrowed to a predatory slit. “Did he leave you behind?”

Cross struggles to quell his racing thoughts, but with panic rising in his soul it's a knee-jerk reaction to think of the gentle calm of Dream’s presence. Like a child reaching for comfort, his mind wants to hold onto the memory of golden warmth and sunny smiles. Beneath that yearning sentiment is an incriminating twist of guilt, and Cross can tell from the flicker of intrigue in Nightmare’s expression that he senses it.

“Or did you leave  _ him _ ?” he asks thoughtfully. Cross doesn’t answer, but Nightmare doesn’t need him to. Cross’s feelings have always been too open, simple and exploitable. There’s nothing he can do to stop the dawning realisation on Nightmare’s face. “Oh Cross. You’re more stupid than I thought.”

There’s a titter of mocking laughter from the shadows. From the corner of his vision, Cross can see Killer leaning casually against one of the pillars, bloody knife still in hand. He catches Cross’s gaze and very deliberately runs his tongue across the blade, licking it clean. Dust is somewhere to his left, a grey shadow against the wall visible only by the hooded pinpricks of his eyelights. He can’t see Horror, but he can smell the putrid rot of old blood so he must be close. It’s too much to hope for that none of them are in a position to see Cross carefully flexing his arms, trying to find a weakness in either the wire or his bones. He might be able to break a wrist to get free, but it’s not going to help him if he can’t get the noose off fast enough to avoid another stabbing.

“Surely you didn’t think you could escape me without the benefit of my brother’s protection,” Nightmare muses. He’s close enough now that Cross is struggling against the roiling cruelty of his aura. Like a pot set over a flame, he can feel his own negativity starting to boil from the proximity. It’s a different kind of sting than his injuries, but no less painful. His legs tremble as they fight not to buckle beneath him.

Every emotion feels overwhelmingly vivid. He’s angry; at himself for ever making a deal with Nightmare, at the multiverse and every world that’s still happy and whole, unlike his own. He’s grieving; for the deaths of his family and friends, for the loss of his own happy ignorance, for the unbearable isolation he’s endured. Worst of all is the guilt; for every stupid choice, for every failure, for all the people he’s managed to hurt along the way.

“Ah,” Nightmare breathes, enlightened. One of his tentacles coils beneath Cross’s chin, forcing his gaze up. Cross can feel the sweat pouring down his face, salt stinging in the fresh cut across his cheek. His breath comes in short, ragged gasps. He feels pathetic. Helpless. Nightmare drinks it in with an air of satisfaction. “I see. You’re here alone because you think you deserve this.”

Cross is an utter failure of a royal guard. He can’t protect anyone, least of all himself. Staying with Dream would just have brought Nightmare’s wrath down upon them both. At least this way, he’s not dragging anyone else down with him. It’s a weak comfort, but it gives him the strength to bare his teeth at Nightmare in a defiant, soundless sneer. 

“Well then,” Nightmare says with an unimpressed smirk. His tentacle slithering unpleasantly along the underside of Cross’s jaw before finally releasing him. “We’ll be sure not to disappoint your expectations.”

“Does this mean we can get started?” Killer asks, his grin as wickedly curved as his knife. “Can I go first?”

“You always get to go first,” Horror complains from somewhere behind Cross, too close for comfort. 

“That’s ‘cuz the Boss likes me best,” Killer asserts smugly. “Right, Boss?”

“I don’t like any of you,” Nightmare states flatly, which only makes them laugh. Even Dust gives a dry chuckle from the shadows. “But I can tell from your handiwork that you’re eager for this. That little taste you had earlier surely wasn’t enough for you.”

Killer makes a low purr of agreement, brandishing the knife again. Cross tries to calculate how many cuts his body can take before it dusts. For someone with such inordinately high LOVE, Killer is meticulously precise with his intent. If he’s careful, he could draw this out for some time. Cross isn’t expecting to survive, but he’d much rather it be quick than slow and excruciating. 

Killer grabs the front of Cross’s shirt, twisting the fabric in his fist as he lifts his knife to Cross’s throat. “You know, I got all excited when the Boss promised us a new recruit. Fresh blood always livens things up around here. S’a real shame you had to go fuck everything up.”

He cleaves downwards with the knife. Cross chokes against the noose, braced for pain, but the blade barely skims his sternum as it shears easily through his clothing. His jacket and shirt fall to pieces, followed swiftly by his shorts. His nakedness is sudden and startling, but the looming threat of the knife concerns him more than the trivial embarrassment. He can only assume that Killer wants a more visible canvas for when he starts sawing into Cross’s bones, which is why he’s not at all prepared for the other skeleton to drop down to his knees instead.

Cold, bony hands settle on his bare femurs, forcing them apart. Bewildered, Cross gapes down at Killer, who only gives him a conspiratorial wink before brazenly wrapping his mouth around the crest of Cross’s pelvis. The contact is abrupt and unexpected, especially when the searing curl of Killer’s tongue maps out the narrow indent of his pubic symphysis. Cross makes a sound that can only be described as a squeal, his body stiffening in mindless shock.

“Wha-?” he wheezes, trying to squeeze the words out past the chokehold of the noose. “What...are you-?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Nightmare asks. “Don’t tell me no one’s ever done this for you before.”

“Please tell me they haven’t,” Killer says, the words slurring as he continues to mouth along the rim of Cross’s pubis. “This’ll be even sweeter if you’re a virgin.”

The implication is horrifying. With a strangled yelp, Cross tries to kick Killer away from him, but the other skeleton easily holds him in place. He doesn’t even acknowledge Cross’s frantic struggles. The slick, filthy noises of his mouth working against Cross’s bones sounds mortifyingly loud. Unfathomably, he deft exploration of teeth and tongue makes Cross’s magic twinge faintly in an unwanted stirring of interest.

“It’s pointless to struggle,” Nightmare says loud enough to counter the small, desperate whimpers Cross can’t keep from making. “Without LOVE or your precious hack, you’re really nothing special.”

The insult barely registers over the deafening thud of his pulse echoing inside his skull. With Killer forcing his knees apart, Cross can’t lift himself to relieve the pressure of the noose. His vision dapples with bright smears of incomprehensible color. It’s starting to feel like his vertebrae might snap, and for a wild moment Cross thinks about how he could twist his body to hasten the process along. As if in answer to his unspoken thought, he suddenly feels an icy grip on his soul lifting him against the flow of gravity. He coughs thickly, his neck throbbing at the unexpected reprieve, and he dizzily casts his gaze over to where Dust is standing, his upraised hand glowing with magic.

“Careful, Killer,” Dust says. His intonation sounds flat, lifeless. Unlike Killer, he doesn’t bother with the mimicry of an emotional palette he can no longer feel. “You’ll break our toy before we’re done playing.”

The hold on Cross’s soul feels almost as intimate as the slimy caress across his pubis. Most of Cross’s experience being on the receiving end of blue magic is from his brother, whose intent was always careful, like cupped hands shielding his soul from harm. Dust is the opposite; the grip of his magic undulates like a spasming fist, squeezing too tight and then loosening until Cross feels like he’s going to slip from Dust’s grasp. He knows Dust can probably feel the rapid stutter of his soulbeat drumming frantically in fear, cringing from the callousness of his magic’s grip. 

“Oops,” Killer replies without a trace of sincere apology. “It’s easy to forget what a weakling he is now. Mmm, he’s nice and sensitive though.”

The crux of Cross’s pelvis feels like it’s on fire, pulsing with its own heat instead of the borrowed warmth of Killer’s mouth. The sweet burn makes the pain of his other injuries recede into distant, unimportant aches. Despite his exhaustion, Cross can feel his magic sinking down towards his hips, condensing in a haze that swirls languidly in the cradle of his pelvis. 

“If that’s true, what’s taking so long?” Horror asks. Cross can hear the drag of his slippers on the floor as he closes in. “If you needed help, you should have just said so.”

The sharp point of a phalange drags over Cross’s scapula, tracing the raw scrape of a cut where one of Horror’s blades had tried to hew through his shoulder. Cross shudders, his voice slipping out of him in an anguished cry. He hastens to silence himself, choking back the sound, but it’s too late. He can feel the compounded interest of his tormentors, their sharpened attention crawling over his exposed bones with terrifying hunger. 

In Horror’s case, that might very well be literal. Cross can’t stop his bones from rattling as Horror leans against his back, his jagged grin pressing against the side of Cross’s skull. His teeth aren’t as deadly sharp as a fell-verse skeleton’s would be, but only because they’ve been worn down, blunted from frequent use where Horror has gnawed through the flesh and bones of humans and monsters alike. 

“Heh,” Horror chuckles lowly. “Hope you don’t mind if I cut in.”

Cross flinches, half-expecting Horror to take a gory bite out of his shoulder, but instead there’s a bright lash of more delicate pain as Horror licks at the bloody wound on his scapula. Like Killer, his tongue feels unbearably hot, especially as it delves into the shallow groove of the cut, tasting the seeping gouge. Cross makes another muted, desperate sound. It hurts, but in a way that only compounds the fluttering condensation of his magic instead of quelling it like he expects. 

“Stop,” he finally manages to choke out. His disoriented gaze seeks out Nightmare, eyelights blown wide and pleading. “Just...hah, dust me.”

“You started begging quicker than I expected,” Nightmare remarks. “But your dust is hardly recompense enough for the trouble you put me through. Besides, you’re currently more useful to me alive.”

“Why?” Cross asks, clinging desperately to the question. Maybe talking can distract him from the sickening swell of pressure in his pelvis as Killer’s gentle licks provide an answering counterpoint to Horror’s rough probing.

“Because my brother has made the mistake of caring for you,” Nightmare tells him, sounding inordinately smug about this fact. “Did you know he’s looking for you?”

Both Cross’s expression and his emotions probably convey his surprise. Nightmare smirks. “I can feel it. He’s scouring every world for any trace of you, but without enough positivity in your soul you’re all but invisible to him. All that misery made it very easy for  _ me _ to find you, though.”

A tentacle brushes along the rim of Cross’s socket, disturbing the swollen tear balanced at its corner. It trickles down his cheek, burning in the cut. “All I need now is a flicker of positivity from you, and my brother will come to save you. You’ll call him here for me.”

“G-go to hell,” Cross growls, incensed. Like hell he’d betray Dream like that. He already made the choice to forsake his positive feelings to make sure the gentle guardian couldn’t follow him. 

“Oh I’m sorry, did you think that was a request?” Nightmare asks, his mouth warping into a horrific facsimile of a smile. “I was only stating a fact.”

Cross readies a retort, but his next breath comes out as an unformed stutter. He clenches his sockets shut, trying to divorce himself from the way Horror’s crooked teeth are scouring carefully across his vertebrae, and how Killer’s nasal ridge is nuzzling into the sensitive crook of his hip. Dust’s hold on his soul clenches tighter at the sound, and Nightmare looks inordinately pleased.

“Arousal is a positive feeling. Of course, it’s mostly a trick of endorphins -- evolution’s way of making procreation a more desirable activity, I suppose. It doesn’t matter whether you’re willing or not. Your body will give me what I want.”

“N-no,” Cross protests, but despite his denial he can feel a hint of truth in Nightmare’s words. It's so exhausting, staying mired in the anger and regret that ensure he stays bathed in a cloud of negativity. His soul desperately wants to chase the high of offered pleasure, to exalt in the maddening ecstasy without thought or reason. 

“He can probably feel you already,” Nightmare observes, basking in Cross’s growing despair. “It will take a stronger culmination of emotion before he can enter this place, but until then he’ll know exactly what’s happening to you.”

“Hnnngh...” Cross jerks his body, but between two pairs of hands and Dust’s hold on his soul, he can barely move. He tries to bring his negativity back to the forefront; focusing on the violation, the humiliation, the disgusted revulsion at his own wretched reactions simply because his body is so desperate for even a mockery of affection. For a moment it almost feels like he’s succeeding, the keen edge of his arousal evaporating in shame, but a sharp yank on his skull makes his sockets open in surprise and he finds Nightmare’s face only an inch from his own.

“Let me help you enjoy yourself more,” he murmurs before closing that gap, his mouth laying claim to Cross’s own with implacable demand. 

It’s not a kiss so much as an act of domination, Nightmare’s fangs and tongue clashing with his own in a battle of wills. Cross’s indignant fury melts away in confusion, along with the defensive shield of his loathing. It feels like Nightmare is sucking them out of him, leaving Cross with nothing but a dizzying emptiness that begs to be filled with something else. He knows Nightmare gains power from negative feelings, but not that he can draw them out and devour them. It leaves Cross with absolutely no defense against the assault of pleasure he’s being subjected to.

His soul is racing with a sickening fervor he can no longer attribute to fear. The carnal satisfaction feels thin and false, insubstantial, but without LOVE there’s no hardening of his soul to protect him and without DETERMINATION the urge to surrender is overwhelming. His magic, already bloated and tender in his pelvic girdle, bursts into over-eager solidity, forming a cunt just increments from Killer’s mouth.

“Ooh, nice,” Killer murmurs, his breath searingly hot against the newly-formed flesh. “Open him up, Horror, let me have another taste.”

Cross keens raggedly as Horror’s sharpened phalanges grapple carelessly between his legs. The jagged points of Horror’s phalanges scour unpleasantly against his pussy before hooking into his passage and roughly spreading him open. Immediately, Killer’s tongue is there, sinfully wet and almost soothing against the aching stretch as he laps ravenously between Cross’ legs. 

Cross’s eyelights roll towards the ceiling, limbs twitching weakly, involuntarily. The zealous formation of his magic makes it feel like there’s too many nerve endings in the engorged lips of his pussy. It’s too sensitive, too overwhelming, too much for him to deal with all at once. The newly formed construct is working in overdrive, spasming, slickening, pulsing with unfamiliar sensations he can’t tamper down on or resist. 

“Enough,” Nightmare commands before Cross can lose himself in the uncontrollable rush. “Give him to me.”

There’s a twang of sound as the rope of his noose is cut loose. A negligent flick of Dust’s wrist yanks Cross from Killer and Horror’s grip and sends him toppling into Nightmare’s waiting arms. The grip on his soul finally recedes, but it still feels like gravity has been inverted. His body feels heavy, untethered, like he’s floating in an incomprehensible space. Nothing feels real, and nothing matters except the urgent need surging in his pelvis.

There’s no reassurance to be found in Nightmare’s face, but the expected fear fails to bloom. He can feel Nightmare’s aura stealing it from him, drinking it down until there’s nothing but anticipation as heavy, oozing tentacles close around him. They hold Cross aloft, his legs spread perversely before the gazes of the other three skeletons, offering them the obscene sight of his gaping pussy as Nightmare's tentacle sits poised at his entrance. It’s so agonisingly close that Cross can feel the faint disturbance of air in the incremental space between them.

Unthinkingly, his bloody wrists stain against the wire. If he had the freedom, he’d throw his arms around Nightmare's shoulders and cling closer, would rut against him with crude animal compulsion. It takes every ounce of will and resistance he has to beg in a reedy whisper, “Don’t.”

It’s not because he doesn’t want it. His body is ready for surrender, and he’ll embrace the endless regret that comes after, but he doesn’t want to drag Dream into his own personal hell. It feels like something is damaged, like he’s numbed and cut off from half his emotions, but nonetheless he tries to convey his feelings without words, like speaking in a language he barely understands. He shoves his emotions at Nightmare, silently promising his pain, his suffering, anything, if only Nightmare will take it from him and not from anyone else.

A surprisingly gentle hand pats the top of his skull with condescending affection. “Such a heroic sentiment. No wonder my brother likes you.”

Without warning the waiting tentacle surges upwards, thrusting hard and deep into Cross’s cunt. The sound that tears out of his is loud and shredded, but there’s not nearly as much pain as he was expecting. His own slick and Killer’s saliva have left his passage slippery and ready, and despite the impatient handling Horror’s fingers have stretched him enough that there’s only a faint and welcome burn where the thicker base of Nightmare’s tentacle stretches him open. 

It’s so incredibly good. His pussy welcomes the unfamiliar intrusion, clamping down hard so he can feel how beautifully it fills him up. It’s a weak imitation of real intimacy, but Cross has been so alone and so bereft of touch and companionship that he's ready to abandon all sense to embrace it. 

“Ahh,” he moans wantonly, his skull dropping drunkenly to rest on Nightmare’s neck. His sockets burn, wet with tears of overstimulated gratitude. His hips jerk weakly to meet the rhythm of Nightmare’s thrusts, whimpering as the tapered limb curls into him, straining against the end of his passage like it wants to demand a longer, deeper construct to plunder. Unfortunately, Cross can’t oblige it. He was already worn out; not even desperate arousal can make him form more than the bare minimum to fulfil his needs.

He’s almost afraid that his body can’t even sustain the momentum necessary for climax. His chest heaves in exertion, his vision strobing unnaturally as his vision fades in and out. He can’t move enough to aid his own arousal, but thankfully Nightmare seems to understand exactly how to coax it from him. His tentacles are everywhere, curling up around Cross’s spine, entangling through his ribs, undulating through his most delicate places, and most importantly, plunging deep and fast inside him.

The orgasm hits him like a punch, both painful and breathtaking. For a moment he feels weightless, exultant. Nothing hurts. Nothing matters. It’s blissful and quiet inside his head as his body is wracked with violent shudders, convulsing helplessly in Nightmare’s grip. The aches he feels remind him of the best parts of a training session, the gratifying rush of satisfaction and the pleasing tenderness in his bones from having pushed himself just a little too hard. 

But through the rush of white noise inside his skull he hears a tentative voice calling him in the dark. 

“Cross?”

The sound Dream speaking his name somehow compounds the delirious high, lengthening his orgasm. It wrings all the strength from his bones, and in the aftermath Cross can only drape limply against Nightmare’s body, gasping and helpless.

“Welcome, brother,” Nightmare says. Cross’s sockets flutter -- when did he close them? -- but he’s too exhausted to open his eyes to confirm the truth. As Nightmare predicted, Dream must have arrived using Cross’s involuntary positive reactions. “So nice of you to join us.”

“Let him go, Night.” Dream’s voice sounds a little shaky. Cross wants to reassure him, to apologise, but he can’t move. He’s expelled everything, his magic, his feelings, his stamina. He doesn’t have anything left. 

“As you like.”

Callously, Nightmare tosses him aside. Cross hits the floor with a weak grunt, and the pain sparks a small burst of adrenaline that allows him to crack his sockets open. Barely, he can make out the golden blur of Dream standing in the hall, a frail torch of light and hope against the darkness. Around him, moving between the shadow of the column, Dust, Killer and Horror are taking up flanking positions. 

It’s four against one. Dream doesn’t stand a chance, not on his own, but as much as Cross desperately wants to help him he can feel his vision going dark around the edges. He can’t even find it in himself to give a pulse of relief and gratitude that Dream actually came for him before he sinks into uncomprehending oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

The first sensation Cross becomes aware of is, oddly, at his extremities. His phalanges twitch, fingertips scraping against the rough floor. Slowly, they curl into fists as awareness starts to creep down his arms and the gentle tingling of his nerve endings abruptly becomes a discordant frisson of pain at his wrists. Dimly, he hears the echo of a low groan thrumming inside his skull. It takes him a moment to recognise it as his own.

The joints of his arms are slow to rouse, and when they do he can feel the way the magic feels thin and frayed like it does when he’s worked too hard. By the time sensation creeps up from his shoulders towards his spine he’s regretting the entirety of his life’s choices. His bones feel like they’re made of lead. Instinct and training take over, urging him to stand, to assess the situation which surely can’t be a good one, but the moment he manages to raise his head he feels an inexplicable force bearing down on his shoulders.

A shadow falls over him. Face pressed uncomfortably to the floor, Cross twists to find Dust crouched beside him, dual-toned eyelights flicking with interest. 

“Finally awake?” Dust asks. He cocks his head, listening to nothing before adding, “Pap was starting to think you were faking, but I guess you’re really just a weakling now.”

He prods Cross’s cheek, jarring the blood-crusted cut left by Killer. Cross hisses, snapping his teeth at the intrusive digit. It’s about the only defence he can muster, with Dust’s hold on his soul keeping him pinned again.

A part of him had been relieved when Gaster had reset his code, but now he finds himself keenly missing his determination...and his LV. Without the half of Chara’s soul he can’t simply will away his injuries into non-existence, and without the comfortable numbness of LOVE he can feel each one of them with excruciating intensity. He’s forgotten how debilitating it is, every cut and scrape a gnawing source of discomfort that eats away at his concentration and his will. His magic responds sluggishly, too weak to provide any resistance against Dust’s magic.

Even that indirect touch is unpleasant. His soul feels tender and bruised, with that scoured feeling he gets every time he’s in Nightmare’s presence for too long, like all the warmth has been gouged out of him. A violent shiver rattles through him, and realises that the cold isn’t just in his soul. His clothes are gone, torn and discarded back in Nightmare’s throne room, and there’s nothing to stop the chill of the floor from creeping into his bare bones. It sharpens the aches of his body, especially where he can feel the sickening film of dried slick coating the inside of his pelvic girdle and down his femurs.

Utter humiliation and sickening dread hit him simultaneously, along with a blurry barrage of memories that feel like they don’t quite belong to him. It reminds him of the fragments of former timelines Frisk shoved into his mind when they were trying to influence him. Memories that feel wrong and discordant in his skull, but that are irrevocably and upsettingly his own. 

He shuts his sockets, retching pitifully from the onslaught. There’s nothing to bring up but a thin trail of spittol that he doesn’t even have the strength to wipe away. He goes still as the horrific reel of his memories finally reaches its end, and his discomfort and even his shame seem almost irrelevant in the face of the most important factor that he almost forgot. 

“Where’s…?” His voice cracks on the syllables, the word spilling out of him like a cough. He has to drag in another heavy breath before he can continue, “Dream?”

Dust’s mouth stretches wider, though the expression can’t really be called a smile. “Lucky for you, Boss said to show you when you woke up.”

A lazy crook of his finger makes the gravity on Cross invert, hauling him upright with a lurching jolt. He scrambles to get his legs under him only for his pelvis to immediately punish his attempt with a throbbing spike of pain. The drunken smear of his memories can only recall a frantic, unbearable pleasure, but glancing down he can see the arch of his pubis looks chafed, mottled with bruises he can’t remember getting. It hadn’t felt like Nightmare was being especially rough with him, but perhaps he’d just been too delirious to notice.

He doubts he can walk far under his own power, but Dust doesn’t even give him the chance to try. He scoops Cross up in a bridal carry, leering down at Cross’s stupefied expression. It takes a few moments for the shock of sudden contact to wear off. He’s uncomfortably aware of his naked bones pressed against the smoothly worn fabric of Dust’s hoodie. Up close, he can see the tiny shimmering flecks that coat Dust’s clothing like a sea of stars; the residue of dead monsters that earned Dust his current moniker. It smells like chalk and spun-sugar, a sickening sweetness that makes Cross want to wretch again.

“Let go,” he growls, beating a weak fist against Dust’s chest. He jarrs his wrist without any visible effect on the other skeleton.

“Don’t you wanna see your little boyfriend?” Dust taunts. He still hasn’t let go of Cross’s soul, ensuring his ability to struggle is hindered by the blanketing weight of unnatural gravity. It also means that when Cross tries for another punch, he can retaliate with a punishing squeeze of his magic, leaving Cross gasping and dizzy, his already pitiful strength draining out of him. His soul feels tight inside his chest cavity like a balloon on the verge of popping. He slumps limply against Dust’s shoulder, trying not to move in the hopes that the pain will start to recede.

He should be trying to focus on where they’re going, memorising the path and mapping the terrain for a future escape attempt, but his vision is wavering with such nauseating intensity it feels like he might pass out again. The hallway around them is a colourless smear of shadows, like a charcoal drawing, with only hints of variation in the intensity of the dark to suggest the shape of walls and doorways. Dust doesn’t seem to need more than the barest of light to navigate. His step is steady and sure. He’s humming something under his breath that sounds like a distorted version of one of the lullabies Cross used to sing for his brother when they were children. The reminder that at some level, the two of them share a core of code that goes deeper than their physical resemblance, is unsettling.

“Here we are,” Dust announces, coming to an unexpected stop in front of a heavy door. It looks no different from any other in the hallway, but up close Cross can feel it thrumming with a fearsome power. It reminds him of the barrier that once encased the Underground before Frisk broke it with their determination. Seemingly undeterred by its ominous resonance, Dust kicks flippantly against the frame in place of knocking. After a moment, the door yawns open, Killer peering through from the other side. 

“‘Bout time,” Killer complains, shoving his shoulder harder against the door to make space enough for Dust to slip through. The moment Killer lets go, it slams shut with enough force to snap a bone caught in the gap. Cross doubts he’d be able to move it himself, in his current state, a barrier just as effective as if it were locked.

Once inside, Cross has to squint against the sudden change in brightness. The room is lit with an unexpected abundance of magically-fuelled torches in stark contrast to every other part of Nightmare’s castle, almost like the room is being bathed in the sunlight that can’t penetrate its walls. The size of the room is as grand as Nightmare’s throne room, like a brighter, better kept twin. Veins of gold weave an intricate web across the walls in patterns as elegant and deliberate as a calligrapher’s brush. The marble floor is polished to a mirror sheen, its surface as smooth and fluid as a placid lake.

Against all expectation, it’s beautiful, or it would be if not for the stifling air of negativity that somehow turns the opulent surroundings into a sickening parody of luxury. The inside air feels suffocatingly enclosed, and Cross realises that it’s still a cage, albeit an extravagant one. Nightmare must have spent a lot of time and effort preparing it for his brother. 

Nightmare himself is standing in the centre of the room, negativity swirling around him in an invisible vortex. His stance looks relaxed, tentacles drifting in harmless coils around him, but there’s a sharpness in the air the the smell of discharged gunpowder that makes Cross suspect he’s irritated about something. If so, it doesn’t show on his face. The smile he gives at Dust’s approach feels directed more at Cross than his subordinate, full of cruel satisfaction and a malicious appreciation for the way Cross cringes under his gaze.

“Even though you’ve chosen to be difficult,” Nightmare says, though not to Dust. His attention is on the figure behind him, crouched at his feet. “I’ve made arrangements to ensure you’ll be properly taken care of. I hope you appreciate my generosity, Dream.”

Nightmare shifts aside, revealing the huddled figure of his brother. Dream is splayed out on his hands and knees, looking like a lost mote of light in a sea of darkness. Two thick manacles are locked around his wrists, each tethered by a long chain linked to a sturdy bracket on the floor. There’s enough slack to give him several feet of movement even if he were standing, but Dream makes no effort to rise. There’s an unfamiliar strain in his expression, his mouth set in a tense, pained line. Sweat visible on his bones and staining his clothes. The usually radiant sparks of his eye lights are dim and drawn, wavering in his sockets like he can’t quite stay focused despite the threats surrounding him.

It takes several long seconds for Dream’s dazed eyelights to finally land on him, but when they do his expression transforms instantly to one of desperate relief.

“Cross!”

Before he can answer Dream’s call, Cross feels the grip on his soul shift again. With a careless toss aided by magic, Dust throws him into Dream, sending them both down in a painful collision of bony limbs. Disoriented, it takes Cross a few seconds to recover. He’s both slightly taller and heavier, so it can’t be comfortable for Dream to be trapped under his weight, but before he can try and pry himself off the smaller skeleton he finds himself trapped in the urgent embrace of Dream’s arms. 

“You’re still alive,” Dream whispers shakily, more upset than Cross has ever seen him. “I couldn’t feel you. I thought...”

There’s a traitorous quiver in Dream’s shoulders. Behind him, he can see Horror grinning, clearly enjoying the show. Nightmare must be enjoying it even more, drinking down his brother’s pain. It makes Cross wonder why they brought him here. Wouldn’t it be more advantageous for Dream to despair, thinking him dead?

“You okay?” Cross asks roughly, judiciously patting Dream down in search of serious injuries with the intense scrutiny of a royal guard for their charge. He looks a little bruised and ragged, but he seems mostly unharmed. There’s no obvious cuts like the ones Cross took prior to his own capture. They were much more careful with Dream, which is as concerning as it is a relief. From Cross’s own unfortunate experience, if Nightmare wants Dream alive it’s not for any good purpose. 

“I’m fine,” Dream insists. He stares searchingly into Cross’s face. “You-?”

With one curt shake of his head, Cross quells that line of questioning. His okayness, or lack thereof, isn’t a point of concern right now. He refuses to think about it, about the marks on his body or the eyes he can feel crawling over his bare bones. If he lives long enough for it to matter, it can be dealt with later. 

“A touching reunion,” Nightmare notes sardonically, making Cross flinch. Instinctively, he angles his body as a shield over Dream. Nightmare regards the pitiful attempt with amusement. “But I didn’t bring him here for conversation.”

Cross scowls, turning to glare up at Nightmare. It’s difficult to hold his gaze with the memory of Nightnmare’s teeth against his own, plundering his mouth, but the need to protect Dream helps harden his resolve. “What do you want?”

“My brother and I have business to discuss,” Nightmare says, his tentacles flicking behind him dismissively. “It’s nothing you could understand.”

“I can understand that you’re hurting him,” Cross retorts, hands twitching. He wishes he still had Chara’s knives to do the maximum amount of damage, but even a blunt bone attack would do. The hint of a half-formed shape tries to bleed into existence, but a warning squeeze of his soul reminds him that Dust still hasn’t let him go. It’s almost impressive that he’s kept the magic active so long, but Cross isn’t in a mood to appreciate it. 

“I’m not doing anything. My brother is simply...hungry.” Nightmare smirks a little, as if at a private joke. “Positivity is in short supply here. Without it, his strength is waning.”

He wouldn’t put it past Nightmare to lie to him, but the unhealthy sheen of Dream’s bones and the loss of vibrancy in his eyes gives unwelcome credence to his words. Catching his gaze, Dream gives a tight, reluctant nod, confirming it to be true.

“Then let him go,” Cross says. “You don’t want to kill him.”

He wouldn’t have expected to be able to say those words with any certainty, but if Nightmare wanted Dream dead he already would be.

“How courageous of you to try instruct me, Cross,” Nightmare says, and even if his tone stays pleasant, the points of his tentacles have elongated, the tips turning spear-like in his ire. “Until our negotiations are concluded, my brother is staying here. He simply needs a temporary source of sustenance. Luckily, you’ve already shown you can give him what he needs.”

Cross goes still, his memories mercilessly replying their last encounter. Nightmare’s dark assurance,  _ It doesn’t matter whether you’re willing or not. Your body will give me what I want. _

“Night,” Dream interrupts, trying to coax Cross’s hold to loosen. He straightens his spine, brow furrowed with apprehension. “D-don’t. I don’t want that.”

“You’d rather starve?” Nightmare demands archly.

“Yes,” Dream says simply.

The answer takes Nightmare aback, but only for a moment. Then his expression darkens like an oncoming storm. “Too bad. It’s not up to you.”

He lashes out with a tentacle that coils around Cross’s chest, pinning his arms before dragging him violently out of Dream’s reach. Cross snarls, twisting to claw at the powerful limb, but he can barely angle his hands to reach its lowest coil and his blunt fingers just slide harmlessly across their slick surface, not even piercing the outer layer. 

“Don’t,” Dream begs. “Don’t do this. Brother, his soul-”

Nightmare’s smirk twists unpleasantly, dangerously, at Dream’s protest. “If you’re so concerned about it, then here.”

Dust has already pulled Cross’s soul out in the open, leaving it tangible and vulnerable. Nightmare simply reaches out with a second tentacle and plucks it from Cross’s rib cage, ignoring the cry of distress. He takes a moment to admire the small, frantically pulsing construct nested in his coiled grip before delicately guiding it over to Dream. With each inch of distance, the ache in Cross’s chest compounds until he’s all but writhing.

“I’ll let you take care of it,” Nightmare says, pushing the hovering organ into Dream’s reluctant hold. “Do be careful. He is rather fragile right now.”

Dream’s hesitant touch against his soul makes Cross shudder, then go limp. Whether it’s the influence of Dream’s positive aura, or just the fact that Cross trusts him infinitely more than he does Nightmare, having his soul in Dream’s possession makes some of Cross’s fraught tension ease. Dream can already feel his emotions without that connection, but now Cross can feel his in return; his frustrated helplessness, fearful concern, and the gnawing, unfathomable emptiness that eases slightly as Cross’s soul thrums in relief. 

All Dream needs is his positivity. It’s not too high a price to pay.

“It’s okay,” he says to Dream. He can’t manage a smile, not even a false one, but he tries to project a sense of reassurance from his soul. Dream’s response pulses against him, conflicted but yearning with a desire for hope.

“Hmm, now let me think,” Nightmare muses aloud. His gaze turns from Dust, to Killer, before finally settling on Horror. “Since you complained about wanting your turn last time, this seems only fair.”

Cross suddenly finds himself face-to-face with Horror, whose dilated pupil is like a blood moon, full and predatory. When he smiles, Cross can see the dark stains in between his teeth. “Heh. ‘Preciate it, Boss.”

Nightmare unwinds his tentacle, but before Cross can even consider making a lunge for freedom, Horror’s hand wraps around his throat. His fingers dig into the existing gouges left by the noose, applying cruel pressure to the already weakened bone. Cross can taste blood and dust in the back of his throat. His strangled cry is only a thin whisper of protest.

“Ahh...sorry. I forgot, we can’t play too rough.” The pressure loosens incrementally, enough that Cross’s vision clears of the ominous blots of bright red colour. Horror drags him closer, breathing deeply against Cross’s collarbone. “Mmm, you smell delicious.”

What little Cross can smell of himself reeks only of sour fear and blood, the very opposite of appealing except to someone as twisted as Horror. With a pleased purr, the other skeleton cups a hand between Cross’s legs, eliciting a ragged yelp. Horror’s cracked phalanges scrape coarsely against Cross’s pubis, abrading the already sensitised bone. It’s more painful than pleasurable, but even so his magic tries to spark weakly in response. It feels more like an act of defence than arousal, like his ecto-flesh wants to try and provide a buffer against the harsh treatment, but he doesn’t have enough magic to spare for anything non-essential after having repeatedly exhausting himself in futile resistance.

“Heh. Guess Dream’s not the only one whose hungry,” Horror observes, pinching at the bone and earning only another dull flicker. “Guess we forgot to feed you first, huh? That’s okay. I got something to help with that.”

Horror’s grip loosens, and without its support, Cross falls hard onto his shins, knees cracking painfully against the floor. He barely has time to drag in a deeper, unrestricted breath before his face is shoved demeaningly against the blatant bulge at the crotch of Horror’s shorts. Cross can feel the heat of it even through the fabric, and his face starts to burn with matching intensity. 

“Cute,” Horror smirks, skimming his waistband down just far enough to expose himself. In contrast to the feral crimson of his eye, his summoned magic is a soft shade of cyan blue. Keeping Cross’s head in place with a firm grip, Horror deliberately rubs the head of his cock against Cross’s gritted teeth, leaving a slick trail of his already oozing precome. “Open up, sweetheart. Unless you want me to find a different hole to use.” 

A low sound slips out of Cross, an incoherent gurgle of mortification, disgust and dread. For a moment, he can barely master the frantic need to thrash and struggle, shove Horror away with as much violence as necessary. Then something nudges uncomfortably against his soul, and the deluge of overwhelming distress recedes to something almost bearable. Cross blinks, feeling almost dazed by the emotional whiplash. He can’t dislodge Horror’s grip on his skull, but his head is turned just enough that he can see where Dream is kneeling. Nightmare is pressed against his brother’s back, tentacles wrapped around him like a terrifying overgrowth of vines. His hands are overlapping Dream’s, guiding them so that they’re not simply caging in Cross’s jittering soul, but cradling it directly.

“Let me help,” Nightmare offers. He’s barely touching Cross, with just the tip of one phalange resting on the upward point of the construct, but Cross feels smothered by it. There’s a foreign pull, like a grappling fight for dominance of which Cross is the inevitable loser. He feels something being taken from him, but almost immediately the sense of confusion and unease starts to fade. The tension unspools from his bones, leaving him loose-limbed and pliant. 

And strangely warm. The musk of Horror’s magic is right under his nose, thick on every breath he takes. It sends a misfire of obscene signals directly to his hindbrain, and the lingering ache at his pelvis twinges a little, like his magic is trying to coalesce again. He tentatively licks the smeared trail of pre-come from his teeth, and instead of finding the salty bitterness off-putting, his mouth starts to water.

“Open,” Horror repeats, wedging his thumb against the corner of Cross’s mouth to encourage him. 

This time, Cross obliges, parting his teeth and extending his tongue to capture a better taste from the head of Horror’s cock. It’s more of a sensation than a flavour; Horror’s magic is astringent and salty, buzzing on his pallet with a chilli-like heat. There’s a sharp pulse of something like outrage that slips away from Cross almost immediately, lost beneath a rising tide of heat that makes him whimper when Horror’s grip on his skill prevents him from chasing that compelling flavour.

“Heh. Good boy.” Horror’s praise hits against some long-forgotten need, and Cross gives a deeper, more fervent moan. He strains to lean forward, to do even better, but Horror only deigns to tease him. The tip of his cock is barely grazing against Cross’s offered tongue, gently rutting back and forth until saliva starts to drip uncontrollably down the underside of his shaft and the corners of Cross’s mouth. “Bet your partner over there never knew what an eager slut you were.”

The violent surge-and-ebb of his emotions to that statement is almost nauseating, but once again Nightmare steals away the negative parts of his reaction, leaving only the wanton realisation that maybe he would like that, if Dream did. If Dream enjoyed seeing him used and degraded, if it brought Dream pleasure--

He’s never thought Dream would be that kind of person, but right now Dream is touching Cross’s soul and he  _ can _ feel something. A feedback loop of gratification, a need being met. Dream is feeding off his positivity, making him stronger, and the rejuvenation of his aura melts right back into Cross’s soul, making him feel lighter, calmer, almost floating with a serene contentment. Cross barely feels lucid, but it doesn’t matter; he’s giving Dream what he needs. He doesn’t want to stop.

“That’s right,” Nightmare’s voice is a distant murmur, more tender than Cross would have thought him capable of. The influence of his touch isn’t as strong as Dream’s, but Cross can feel a hint of him in the absence left by his stolen emotions. There’s a fearsome satisfaction and a want for something Cross doesn’t even have a name for, something alien and unknowable. “Take what you need from him, Dream. No need to hold back.”

“I don’t…” Dream’s blush makes his face look radiant, a warm and healthy color compared to his earlier pale. There’s a slither of movement beneath the yellow fabric of his surcoat, and Cross realises that Nightmare’s tentacles aren’t just holding stationary but slinking their way across Dream’s body, carefully working their way under his clothes. There’s no force or demand in that movement. It’s slow, almost cautious. Dream can’t be unaware of it, but he’s not fighting it, not even when a tentacle coils around his femur and squeezes dangerously close to his hip. Cross can feel an echo of Dream’s surprise, a flashburn of arousal like a frisson of electricity up the length of his spine. Cross moans, loudly, shamelessly, only to have the sound buried back in his throat by the sudden intrusion of Horror’s cock thrusting deep into his mouth.

He jerks reflexively, fighting against the choking engorgement. The unexpected pain makes his sockets water, and he swallows frantically trying to find some way of easing the brutal stretch. His nasal ridge is pressing up against Horror’s pubic bone, and this close he can’t see anything but the greyed and stained hem of the other monster’s t-shirt. He scrabbles blindly for a handhold to ground him, because despite everything he can feel his own magic throbbing with an almost painful intensity in his pelvis. He can feel droplets of condensation dripping from between his femurs where the magic is surging desperately, but can’t fully form to provide the necessary outlet. He’s tempted to reach down and touch himself, but his body feels like it’s a car being driven by someone else while he’s only a helpless backseat passenger. He’s not the one in control here. 

Besides, no touch of his own could be as good as the one Dream has on his soul. He can tell Dream’s struggling to be careful, but with Nightmare’s hands pressing down on his own his phalanges can’t help but slip in the slippery layer weeping from the surface of Cross’s soul. The raw magic is a conduit, amplifying the connection until Cross can feel brief flashes of tactile resonance. Nightmare’s weight against Dream is like a suffocating embrace, equally unnerving and nostalgic. Both Dream and Cross shudder in unison as the tentacle wound around his femur undulates in a fluid motion that skims against the crux of his groin, and Cross feels a fresh outpouring of wet heat spilling across Dream’s fingers.

Dream’s thought comes to him with unexpected clarity. The shimmering, silvery fluid is dripping from his fingers, soaking into his gloves like raw moonlight and with a sense of wonder he thinks,  _ It’s beautiful _ . 

That’s all it takes for the dam to break, and Cross comes hard. His climax feels like a tidal wave, rolling him under. It’s savage and intense, too big for the smallness of his body and its mortal fragility. It feels like something’s going to break, and for a reckless moment he thinks he wouldn’t mind. He could dust like this, coming apart in Dream’s hands in a freefall of mindless euphoria.

“That’s enough.” 

Cross jolts as Nightmare pries his soul from Dream’s grip. It’s like having his soul dunked in ice water, the comforting warmth of Dream’s aura stripped away, leaving him feel more naked than simple bareness can account for. He’s suddenly starkly aware of the wincing ache in his kneecaps from resting on the hard floor. His jaw is aching from the unfamiliar contortion of being forced wide. It feels like he’s been swallowing broken glass, and every muffled sound torn out of him makes the pain flare brighter, eclipsing the last aftershocks of pleasure.

The choking length of Horror’s cock is suddenly too much, too overwhelming, painful and violating, but there’s no strength or coordination in his limbs. Horror’s grip is unrelenting, leaving scratches on his skull with each demanding thrust. The head of his cock slams bruisingly against the back of Cross’s throat, over and over, with a concussive force that drives every thought from his skull. 

Except for one voice, low and seductive. It’s Nightmare’s, creeping into his subconscious through the hold on his soul to whisper with mocking derision,  _ you deserve this. You’re pitiful. A failure. A broken scrap of forgotten code. You can’t save anyone. You can’t stop this. Give in. Give up.  _

Horror comes with a guttural, gratified snarl, his ejaculation burning hot and agonising against the rawness of Cross’s throat. He doesn’t want to swallow but there’s nowhere else for it to go unless he wants it flooding up the inside of his skull, a stain of filth that will never come out. His throat works weakly, painfully gulping it down. It seems to take forever. There’s so much he feels like he’s drowning in it, his chest screaming for unneeded air even as each disgusting mouthful makes his marrow tingle with relief. It’s no substitute for real food, but starved and weakened, his body desperately absorbs Horror’s cum for whatever pitiful energy it can give him, but the very act of it makes Cross feel numb. Unclean. 

His eyelights are glazed and dull when Horror finally pulls back to regard his handiwork. His cock slips free from Cross’s mouth with an obscene pop, followed by a frothy outpouring of backed-up spit and come. It drips freely from Cross slack mouth only to be carefully swept back up and forced back between his teeth. It tastes even worse on Horror’s filthy fingers, even watered down from Cross’s saliva. 

He doesn’t fight it. He can't stop this.

“Don’t waste it now,” Horror scolds him with a manic grin. “You’ll need your strength for later.”

“Indeed,” Nightmare agrees, absently flicking silvery droplets off his fingers. Unlike Dream, his mental assessment of Cross’s soul essence is,  _ disgusting _ . He quickly transfers Cross’s soul to a tentacle so he doesn’t have to touch it directly before turning to Dream. “Now that you’re satisfied, brother, we can continue with our negotiations...but do let us know if you start to feel tired again. Cross will be more than happy to serve you.”

Horror has released his skull, but Cross doesn’t move except to curl around himself. He doesn’t look up, not when Nightmare contemptuously returns his soul and not when Dream softly tries to call his name. For the first time since he left his world behind, he tries to imagine himself back there in that empty, awful space. Alone. Isolated. Hidden. Lost.

It’s what he deserves. He can’t save anyone, after all. 


End file.
